Odd Man Out
by BasementOfTheMansion
Summary: The days and ways in which Toby does not get the girl.
1. Sweet Tooth

**Title:** Sweet Tooth  
**Rating:** K  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. No profit made.  
**A/N:** Since I've had a rash of one-shots about Toby not getting the girl, I figured I'd put them in a vaguely themed collection to avout spamming the section with a bunch of random tidbits I'd have to keep explaining. Most of this is Season 3-centric, sort of floating around the continuum of the mood at that time.

* * *

The funny thing is, he doesn't even like jellybeans.

But the tray's still there, even though there's no sandy-headed salesmen to haunt it. It's another constant of Dunder-Mifflin, a backdrop to the tiny dramas that unfold. A weak springboard for his weak agenda.

Anyway... Jellybeans. He never even liked them as a kid on Easter. They stick in his fillings when he tries to eat them, or leave colored splotches on his palms as he carries them, in clenched and sweating fists, back to his corner of banishment.

But no one else goes up there these days, so when he passes by, he stops under that pretense and smiles uncertainly when she glances up. Sometimes she smiles and sometimes she looks like she actually means it. Once in a while, she says "Hey" and he says "Hey" back and wanders away with a pounding heart.

Every time, though, he's left with sticky artificial flavors that he doesn't want. It feels like a metaphor, but for what he can't tell.

If she knew, she might laugh. Or she might look at him with confused pity.

Either way, he gets the sinking suspicion that she'll probably never find out.


	2. Let Down Your Long Hair

**Title:** Let Down Your Long Hair  
**Rating:** K  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. No profit made.  
**A/N:** Purely the result of a late-night idea, and my facination with unabridged fairy tales. Go ahead and read a few sometime. That book Dwight read to the kids was not fabricated in the least.

* * *

Fairy tales look different as an adult.

He's been reading them to Sasha. They stick in his mind, gaining new connotations.

They're clumsy, bumbling tales with nonsensical plot points, edited into incoherency over the years from their blood-and-sex origins. He isn't sure what exactly they teach his daughter, anyway. To wait for a prince to rescue her?

He only hopes, for her sake, that she takes after her mother in that respect.

Sometimes he feels like he's watching a fairy tale unfold at the office. Can it really be that simple? Boy meets girl true love's first kiss, and happily ever after... He watched the prince stumble in, road-weary and off-script, and sweep his princess off to... what?

Is this her happily ever after, then? Because he thinks that she's the same now as she used to be with Roy. Smiling more, yes, and dressing better, but now she's a girlfriend once more, waiting on a man and a ring and a date to be set.

He liked her before. She could have slain her own dragons. Maybe she did, in breaking off her engagement. Pam Beesly, dragonsbane. Firewalker.

But that was before her story ended, segueing into "their" story. She seems happy with that, but sometimes, he believes--or wants to believe--that some bit of that old spirit remains, wanting more than another engagement and thirty more years of answering phones.

He doesn't really know, though. Her prince may be privy to that information, but certainly not him.

Why are the princes always the heroes in the old stories, anyway? He's never felt like either one, and he's certainly never rushed in to save the girl, on a white charger or otherwise.

If anything, he identifies with the princesses themselves, asleep or just waiting, destined to throw in their lot with the first person who finds them and call it true love.

In his stranger moods, he imagines the annex is an ivory tower, and he is waiting for...

Something. Anything, really.

Once or twice, he tried to throw a line to Pamela Dragonsbane, in the vague hope that she'd climb up and visit him. She always rode past his tower without seeing the rope. Now she's far beyond the horizon, and she doesn't look back.

He wants to be what she was. He wants to take a running leap off the top of the tower, knowing full well there will be no one to catch him.

Maybe, on some fine once-upon-a-time, he will.


	3. Prayers For Pele

Title: Prayers To Pele  
Rating: T  
Diclaimer: Not mine. No profit made.  
A/N: This is a story that occured merely from writing the first line. I had almost no control over it until I finished the train of though, and only then did I go back and add a few of the finest metaphors I've penned in months. I'm ludicrisly proud of this piece.

* * *

He's prone to grand and meaningless gestures.

The pressure builds up in him like a volcano, everything bottled and suppressed until he can barely think from the rage and madness boiling within him. Just when it reaches its zenith--when he thinks that the lava's going to rush forth and pave over his sad little life and his sad little mistakes--he spews forth a thin stream of ash and heat and bile that the wind sweeps away.

The analogy occurred to him in Amsterdam, heartsick and wondering how he could have forgotten that pot only makes him tired and that he's the worst kind of melancholy drunk. It still feels apt, but not as elegant as he believed it to be at that moment.

After he'd given up on trying to forget, he crawled home and curled up into his shell of a life. All the pressure had abandoned him, pissed away like his savings in a place he'd only thought he'd wanted to be. It left a void where it used to be, an absence of love and anger.

But it didn't stay empty for long. Every glance to Reception was a drop of both into the empty bucket of his soul. It gradually built, like Chinese water torture, into a straining levy, and for the first time he sees that he really has two choices here.

He can run away to the beach and the sun, finding a new start. He knows, though, as he looks into the bleak mirror of disillusionment, that even the ocean can't fill the vacuum of his heart.

Or he could...

He tries not to think about it much, lest his thoughts collapse the waveform, opening Schrödinger's Box to reveal that his last dream has died.

But, one day not terribly unlike any other day, he does more than think. He acts. Morose Toby Flenderson tells pretty Pam Beesly that he likes her, that he wants to be with her and be the reliability without the thoughtlessness, the companionship without the abandonment. Or, in short, everything she's never gotten from a man. Not exactly in those words, but that's how he'll remember it.

Pam, she stands there on the spot, and her gaze falls to the floor in a way that lets him know, more certainly than he's ever known anything, that it will never quite reach his the same way again.

He feels the steam and the ash and the bile rise in his throat, and behind them is the molten rumble of magma.

* * *

A/N II: A Schrute Buck to anyone who gets the title.


	4. Passive Aggression

**Chapter:** Passive Aggression  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** Yadda, yadda  
**A/N:** So this is pretty much a huge break from the first few chapters, in length, style, and focus. It's also the beginning of broadening the horizons of this little experiement. This fic revolves almost entirely around the episode Dunder-Mifflin Infinity, especially the semi-deleted scene with Amy, Toby's alleged girlfriend.

* * *

They met at a bar. That really should have been a red flag, but if Toby's past has shown him anything, it's that he's really good at ignoring red flags. Take his ex-wife. Take his dead-end job. Take the slow decent into hell that is his life.

It wasn't too long after Jim had abandoned the corporate interview, and the hopes Toby had almost dared to hope had fizzled and died beneath the sun of Pam's smile. He was at Poor Richard's, feeling reckless in his milquetoast way and perhaps more than a little buzzed, when he caught sight of the pretty girl at the end of the bar. He bought her a drink and watched as the bartender pointed towards him. She smiled across the wooden ocean between them and somehow, by the end of the night, they ended up side-by-side, like two pieces of driftwood caught in an eddy.

She said her name was Amy. The next morning, he only remembered dark hair and a smile, but he had her number written on a coaster.

He called her two days later, after a day dealing with Dwight filing what was approximately the billionth complaint against Jim for yet another juvenile prank. He ceased to register what it was as Dwight rambled on, taking to staring at some point in the air about three inches past the man's left ear, thinking only about the quiet months in which he'd thought he'd never have to deal with this sort of thing again.

They made a coffee date, and it went reasonably well. She talked a lot, and he nodded in all the right places. In some ways, he was reminded of Kelly, but Amy wasn't quite so high-pitched and didn't say a word about Brangelina, which was an improvement. She said he was a good listener, and he smiled gratefully.

For the rest of the date he felt curiously light, as if he'd been allowed reprieve from the burdens of his life. He listened to her talk about her favorite bands and the ones she'd seen in concert, and her was almost convinced that he might be happy.

They went out for dinner and a movie on the next date. She still chattered over the meal, but not so much, and he wondered if it was nerves rather than personality on the first date. She mentioned a break-up in passing, accidentally-on purpose, and her voice was still raw. He wasn't terribly surprised. They kissed when he brought her home. It wasn't any noticeable effort on either of their parts, but simply slotted into place in the sequence of the night. She tasted like popcorn.

Another coffee date almost convinced him that something might be building between them. He told her about the documentary--"No way! You're like a reality TV star?!"--and about his coworkers. She was the right mix of amused and disbelieving, intrigued by the idea of cameras but not dropping hints about her own fifteen minutes.

He decided he liked her. Then it all went to hell.

Toby had thought his dreams of Pam to have died a quiet, noble death, but the sight of her kissing Jim lurched them into reanimation. They hounded him like a pack of zombies, utterly dead but still clawing at his heart. So he did the only thing he could do, in the most passive-aggressive, HR rep way imaginable. He sent out a memo about PDA.

Secretly, he was hoping to either embarrassingly out them or get a firm denial to ease his mind, but somehow he managed to convince himself that he was only doing his job. Never mind that he'd stayed mum when it became increasingly obvious that Dwight and Angela were doing more than filing expense reports together. Never mind that he hadn't the nerve to send such a reminder to Michael about his million indiscretions. He was simply doing his job.

Whatever he was trying to achieve, though, totally backfired. His coworkers all but cheered at the news. He was surprised a shower of confetti and the release of a flock of paper doves didn't accompany the congratulations. Oh, but worst of all, far worst of all, was the hopeful line Pam threw out to him about it being his fun way of congratulating them, her eyes locked on his, silently pleading for him to say yes, say yes so we'll still be civil coworkers and almost-friends.

What else could he do? He said yes.

After blowing the two of them off in regards to paperwork, he called Amy on his break. They made plans for that night. At Poor Richard's, which should have been a red flag.

When she sat down across the table from him, he thought she looked pretty. Beautiful, really, in a deliberate way, in a way totally unlike Pam. She was what any sane and straight man should want. Never mind that she wasn't what _he_ wanted. She was what he was going to get.

He had a drink or two too many. Really, that was it. The world and all its troubles were still well within his grasp. Just not the ability to drive.

Perhaps Amy noticed the brittle brightness in his tone, the uncharacteristic boldness with which he put his arm around her waist. In all likelihood, she did not, or at least, did not understand its meaning. After all, she barely knew him.

She only had a few drinks, well spaced out over the course of time they stayed there listening to the juke box and watching the corner-mounted TV, so when they left, she steered him towards her car.

"So where to now?" she asked, an invitation hidden in her voice.

At that point, Toby was just drunk enough to be able to say "How about your place?" but sober enough to be disgusted with himself for his reasons. She agreed, though, whatever that was worth. The radio substituted for conversation on the ride over.

She brought him up to her apartment, which was a nice enough place, but very foreign to him. The nerve the bottle had lent him began to drain and he wondered what he was doing there.

She said, "My roommate's out of town."

She said, "There's beer in the fridge if you want any."

She said, "Why don't we go into the living room and sit down."

He just followed and sat down next to her. Her fingers curled around the hem of her skirt. It was a short skirt, mid-thigh sitting down. She turned to him, mouth open to say something else--

He kissed her. Hard. He hadn't kissed a woman like that in years... Maybe never exactly like that. It was high-school desperate, unskilled and tasting of alcohol. The tension in her shoulders unwound and she kissed him back with her own brand of desperation.

His perception of time grew fuzzy. Looking back, they were on the couch a long time, but one kiss seemed like another, like one unchanging moment that stretched out over the better part of a half-hour. His hands wandered over her, but it felt mechanical and expected, a pantomime of a love scene. But she was warm and soft and real, and though his heart was battered and his mind vaguely vengeful, his body had a momentum of its own.

She led him to her bedroom. He managed to stammer out something about protection, and she said she was still on the pill. There was a darkness to the word "still," an angry void he recognized. It hit him then that her reasons probably were not so different from his. Somehow, that made it easier.

The sex was... okay. Even though it had been a while for him, he managed to hold on until she seemed satisfied, then there were a few white-hot seconds of pleasure. Afterwards, though, there was only emptiness. They untangled and fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning he awoke to an empty, unfamiliar bed. There was no shock, however, or flutter of panic. He opened his eyes with the calm, cold realization of exactly what he'd done. He looked at the clock and saw it was a few minutes past seven.

He pulled on his boxers, undershirt, and pants--god, he'd worn the same suit he'd put on for work yesterday morning--then slipped his button-down shirt over that, feeling too exposed. He gathered the rest of his clothes and walked out of the room. He found the bathroom quickly and made use of it.

He could hear sounds down the hallway and followed them to find Amy in the kitchen, clad in a robe and making coffee.

"Good morning," she said as if it really was. "Want some coffee?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"How do you take it?"

"Black." He sat down at the table, putting his wad of jacket and tie on the chair beside him. They shared coffee, and eventually some toast, with palpable awkwardness overlain with a thin veneer of politeness.

"I have to be in to work at nine," he said abruptly.

"I'll drive you in... Just gimme a bit to get ready." She disappeared off the bathroom and soon he heard the muted blast of the shower. She had today's paper on the counter, and he read it thoroughly while he waited. He finished dressing with his eyes still glued to the print. It was easier than thinking.

When she got out, hair still damp but dressed for the day, he took the chance to finish getting ready. He borrowed her mouthwash, then washed his face and ran her brush through his short hair. He looked... pretty much the same as he did yesterday.

She was waiting in the kitchen when he finished.

"You ready?"

"Yeah... Uh, Amy?"

"Mmm?"

"Last night... it was... It was good."

She smiled, and kissed him briefly.

The ride to Dunder-Mifflin was punctuated only by directions. Finally, she pulled into the parking lot, and rolled to a stop out front.

"Looks like your stop," she said with a hint of a grin.

He nodded, and opened his mouth to say goodbye. "Do you want to come in and meet everyone really quickly?" he found himself asking, then smiling hopefully.

She pursed her lips. "...Sure. Why not?"

Everyone's eyes turned to them as they walked in the door and he felt a thrill of victory as Jim tore his gaze from Pam to regard him and the beautiful woman he led.

"Hey, guys. This is my, uh, girlfriend, Amy," he said as casually as he could muster.

"Hi," Pam offered.

"Hey, Amy. How ya doing?" Jim chimed in.

"Nice to meet you," the receptionist continued and Jim faintly echoed the same.

Toby waved vaguely at the main part of the office. "This is everybody else. Okay... This is the place. So, thanks for the lift."

"Yeah, sure. I'll, uh, I'll see you tonight, right?" she asked, her eyes begging for it to be true.

"Absolutely." He felt her stiffen as he kissed her, the cameras zooming in. He ignored them and she yielded cautiously to the intense kiss, or at least didn't push him away.

"Whoa. Easy, tiger," she said when it broke, an attempt at a joke not quite masking the uncomfortable shock.

"I just really like you," he murmured.

"Okay. Bye, guys. Nice to meet you." She fled the fish-eye lenses as quickly as possible.

"Have a great day!" he called after her like a plea.

Pam broke the awkward silence first. "Whoa, Toby. Watch out. You're going to violate your own PDA memo."

"I wouldn't want to do that now, would I?" he said, shocked by the venom in his own voice, and walked back to his desk with the burn of everyone else's stare on his face and neck. Jim's stung the most, confused pity and disgust. Like he was so much better. Like he hadn't done the same thing with Karen.

Through the day, no one noticed he wore yesterday's clothes. All his suits looked the same, and they all blended into the background along with the man inside them. He bought lunch from a machine and ate it at his desk, avoiding the break room and the threat of conversation. He called Amy and cancelled their phantom date, telling her he unexpectedly had to work late. It was transparent as hell, but she accepted it.

He got a cab at the end of the day and rode to Poor Richard's. He drove home, barely registering the murmuring of the radio. He felt sick, from hunger and from his junk-food meal, but mostly from what he'd done.

Over the next week, Amy called a few times. He merely stood beside the phone as spoke into the ether of the answering machine. The last message she left sounded sad, resigned. She must have known he had only been using her, but she still clung to a thread of hope.

He picked up coaster with her number, and put one hand on the phone before he stopped. An epiphany struck him where he stood, and it was as if he could see down the tunnel of the future he was heading into... Some dates, some sex, a woman who would almost but not quite understand him. It would either end badly or, worse, work out into a sham of a relationship, two people clinging to each other in the fear of loneliness.

He let his hand fall away from the receiver. He didn't want that. He didn't want Amy, and when it came right down to it, he wasn't truly sure he wanted Pam, but he didn't want that. He'd had enough of settling for whatever came his way.

The coaster dropped from his fingers and tumbled end over end into the trash can.

* * *

A/N II: I found that scene facinating to puzzle out. It's kind of surprising that no one else has considered why he would do that (since usually every lil' aspect of the show is disected and discussed, with a cute little history fic to back it up). Then again, nobody wants to write Toby since he got creepy (except as Jim's foil). But why exactly did he start seeming so creepy, anyway? Surely everything he's done was somehow logical to him...

Ahem. Enough of my pro-Toby propeganda... Special thanks to MrsBigTuna for reassuring me that this wasn't as awful as I feared it was. Next chapter will also be a little different than the rest... Future fic, anyone?


	5. Solstice

Title: Solstice  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: Fill in the legal  
A/N: Yes, I'm back to the weird, themed monologues... This time, anyway.

* * *

It filtered away, piece by piece, until the day he woke up and found that everything was gone. Even weekend custody, because his sweet little daughter was twenty and off at the college he was mostly paying for because he still made the same kind of salary he once supported a family on. It's the least he could do, the really least, because he wasn't around for anything important.

The days were shorter and the nights long and cold, because he missed all the boats and got too old to do anything but go to a job he hated and come home and watch bad TV. His daughter didn't call much, because she had a life and a future.

He had neither, and hadn't for a really long time.

A little more than a decade ago, he ran away for a couple of years. Pissed away all his savings in the sun and the sand, then gravitated back to the only place he'd ever remotely belonged, however briefly. He wasn't much good at surfing anyway, even after his neck healed.

He missed the Pennsylvania winters, which were the exact median between the harsh eight month freeze of the north and the negligible flurries of the south. They were reliable. You could feel them coming. Not like hurricanes, which plagued the tropics and kept him in a state of panic all through the season. Pennsylvania didn't pull that kind of shit on him, at least.

He was a winter person, which was kind of a shock to find out after dreaming of the beach all his adult life. There was something calming about the long emptiness, brown hills of skeleton trees and the tiny nests of warmth humanity carved out the raw cold. The ocean took too much and gave too little back, sweeping his hopes out to sea and washing his troubles up again like driftwood.

Even though his neck twinged in the cold, the ache of bone remembering that they had been broken, he felt at home in the grayness of the season. He was seeped in the sorrow of the world, everyone else's complaints and the scraping hollowness of his own existence. Winter felt like the end of the world, like the old Norse warrior-poets had promised. There are days when he'd welcome the apocalypse, shaking away the whole of creation like an Etch-A-Sketch doodle until it was all white and clean again.

His timing had been bad, all those years ago. An eight-year-old is not the same person as a ten-year-old, and doesn't look at the man who disappeared for two years like a father anymore. She's her mother's daughter now, and as such, quite beyond his reach.

He's glad for her. She'll be much happier if she's nothing like him. She still has his surname, but some man will wipe away that last trace of him in time.

So, yeah, his life grew darker and colder for a long time. And he let it. Because he discovered that he's a winter person.

The last thing he let go of was his daughter, and he simply realized that Sasha was not "his." She was her own person. As much as he loved her, and always would, there was nothing more he could do.

His life was wide and empty around him, like a snow-covered field, and for once, everything's in perfect balance like the solstice in the deepest heart of the cold.

Winter's not barren, not really. Life's just sleeping under the snow, waiting out the hardship. Eventually it thaws. Eventually there's a chance to start over.

It's sort of sad, he realized, that it's taken him this long to see it, but he's not dead yet and the world isn't ending any time soon. He's still got some time left, a couple of decades.

Enough time to see the spring again.

* * *

A/N: So, tell me, my friends... Do I pull too many punches with Toby? I feel like I do... I just can't bear to not leave him without a sliver of hope. (That's the show's writers' job.) Anyway, I'd like to dedicate this fic to the early, bitterly cold winter a'brewin' here in the Keystone state. This one's for you...


	6. Trenchmates

**Title:** Trenchmates  
**Rating:** K  
**Diclaimer:** I own a crappy computer and twenty filled notebooks. Not this.  
**A/N:** Well, I'm Taren it up in here with another fic in the same night! I normally don't do this, because I like to have at least one review before the next chapter goes up but, hey... I spent a sleepless night writing much Tobyfic and I have a surplus. Okay, okay... Pre-Beach Day, then post-The Job.

* * *

Toby kind of liked Karen, if only because she'd given his hopes a stay of execution. Not that anyone ever asked him, but yeah, he did. For what it was worth.

She walked into the annex matter-of-factly, like it was an extension of the kitchen and she wanted to grab a napkin, and sat down it the extra chair. He looked at her. She stared back, waiting for him to speak.

For a few seconds the only sound between them was Kelly's infinite supply of chatter wafting over the partition. Then he said, in his tired way, "Can I help you?"

"...I'm interested in getting some information about transferring," she said crisply.

'Well, I can make some calls," he said haltingly, "How... How soon are you thinking?"

"Oh, um... Actually, I just wanted some information," she said, façade of professionalism slipping a little. "I want to keep my options open. I don't know if things are going to work out... here."

"Do you want to stay at the same level, or are you looking to move up in the company?"

"Whatever's available."

He nodded. "I'll definitely see what I can do."

"Thanks. And this is all confidential, right?"

"Of course."

She nodded absently and made to no move to leave. He knew what had to be coming, but the words came out automatically because... He's HR. It's what he does. "Is everything else all right?"

"Still confidential?"

"Mm-hmm."

She shook her head no, and for a moment her competent businesswoman mask slipped off completely and she looked like she might cry. There was an achingly familiar look of helplessness in her eyes, of riding the first few feet of the avalanche, knowing it's too late and knowing there's so, so much further left to fall.

He wanted to tell her he knew how she felt, that he had been there and he knew, like trenchmates on the battlefield know the same horrors civilians could never comprehend. He wanted to confide in her about his crush on Pam and tell her Jim was an idiot and share some stories about how immature he was. He wanted to invite her out to commiserate over drinks or something. He wanted to tell her that he kind of liked her, and not just because she'd given his hopes a stay of execution.

But he wasn't that man, and she wasn't that woman. He met her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She looked away. "Yeah, me too." Her voice was low and husky with emotions held desperately in check. Then she pulled her mask on and marched off like a good little soldier back to the front lines.

ooo

Toby called Kendall and related the situation. The corperate rep told him that few branches might be able to take on another sales rep, but with immanent downsizing looming, it was shaky at best. However, the relatively stable Utica branch's regional manager was retiring and the position was up for grabs at that point.

"I've never had any complaints about Ms. Filipelli, but I've never had a chance to observe her either. Do you think she could handle management?'

"...Yeah," Toby replied, looking through the double-layer of glass that separated him from the rest of the office. "After what she's been through here, I think Karen can handle anything that comes her way."

ooo

The office was in a state of uneasy productivity as everyone tried to ignore the fight in the conference room. After a hellish eternity in which even the camera operators seemed uncomfortable, they emerged. Jim staggered to his desk; Karen stormed off to the break room.

Then to the annex.

"Put the transfer through," she said, her professional mask clamped down tight, and turned on her heel.

"Karen?" Toby called softly, not expecting her to take notice.

She did, though, and glared over her shoulder like a trapped animal.

"For what it's worth... It was nice working with you."

She walked away without a word, shoulders shaking with sobs she couldn't quite hide.

* * *

A/N II: I've always found Taren fics to be... a little hackneyed and too convenient, in most cases. Not that it isn't a fun concept. I personally feel bad for Karen 'cause she got the shaft really badly. I don't know why, but as my fandom progresses, I've really come to resent Pam and Jim and all the fallout they caused.

**The next chapter is held for ransom!** Five reviews or it's a no-go! Come on; there are alerts on this story from people who haven't reviewed... I NEED VALIDATION! (gasping) I need to stop posting at four in the morning...


	7. The Love Song

Title: The Love Song of Toby Flenderson  
Rating: K+  
Discliamer: Office = NBC. T. S. Eliot = His estate, or whatever.  
A/N: So this is basically a shameless vanity fic, because "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot is my favorite poem in the world (The WORLD!) and it seems rather apt, all things considered (especially since I alluded to it in the summary...). You should definitely Google the poem before reading if you're not familiar with it.

* * *

"So what should next month's book be?" Oscar asked in the final minutes of the meeting of the Finer Things Club.

"I was thinking we could do some poetry" Pam suggested.

"What would you suggest?" Oscar asked.

"I've always really liked Emily Dickinson..."

He couldn't hold back a scoff. "Come on, Pam. This isn't high school." He looked to Toby to back him up. "What do you think?"

"Poetry sounds fun, but I don't like Emily Dickinson either," he said apologetically.

"Who's your favorite poet, then?" Pam asked, trying to skip past the rejection.

"T. S. Eliot," he replied automatically.

Oscar chuckled. "That's a shock."

"I don't know that I've ever read any of his poetry," Pam said. "It'll be something new."

"I can live with Eliot, even if he is a downer," Oscar conceded. "Are we agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Okay, then... Same time next month."

ooo

"I didn't really like it," Pam said with an apologetic shrug, laying the book on the table. "It's really depressing."

"You didn't like it at all?" Toby said, feeling a little hurt.

"Well, some of the ones where he's talking about faith aren't so bad. Kind of. But everything's so hopeless and sad."

"I kind of have to agree with Pam. The man can write some amazing verse, but it makes you want to hang yourself when you're done reading it. _The Waste Land_'s good in it's own way, but it really doesn't make any sense."

Toby shrugged. "Yeah, I never really understood that one, either."

Pam looked at him. "Well, you really like Eliot, Toby. What's your perspective?"

"On his work in general or something specific?"

"Which one's your favorite?"

He sighed a little, feeling put on the spot. "..._The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_."

They opened their copies and flipped through until they found it.

"It's been my favorite poem by him... since I first read it, pretty much. I guess at first I didn't really understand it, but I liked the way he used language and the weird rhyme scheme. I started seeing different things in it the more I reread it, though. Understanding his perspective a little more. I always kind of liked how the poem said specific things, but putting them together just formed this loose framework through which you could view things in your own life. Well my life, anyway."

They were both staring at him intently. Not because they pitied him or were judging him, but because they were listening to what he had to say. Emboldened, he continued. "The thing that always struck me was that... This man basically has lost any chance for love in his life. And he knows it. But he doesn't give up, and he doesn't stop trying to understand it, even though he knows he never will. It's like... He sees his own mortality and he works his way through it. And he doesn't come to a good conclusion and he doesn't get a happy ending but he accepts it all with some dignity." He shrugged. "That's how I take it, anyway."

Oscar nodded slowly. "That's actually a pretty good analysis."

Pam pressed her lips together. "When I read that one, I just thought it was a lament that the narrator missed out on his only shot for happiness, but I can completely see where you're coming from."

Toby's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded. 'There's one part that always seemed really poignant to me. It's near the end." He cleared his throat a little and recited from memory.

"'No... I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;  
Am an attendant lord, one that will do  
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,  
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,  
Deferential, glad to be of use,  
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;  
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;  
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—  
Almost, at times, the Fool.'"

Toby never considered himself much of an orator, but he'd always been comfortable with that monologue, if only because he fit the part. Pam and Oscar were staring at him again, but this time there was just a touch of admiration mixed in, and he felt a flutter of pride. He was finally more than the soft-spoken mediator... He was making a contribution.

"So... Wow, you definitely won the audition there, Toby," Oscar joked, effectively breaking the spell.

"Thanks," he murmured, looking down. He suddenly felt very exposed.

"I think you've given me a whole new perspective on Eliot," Pam added.

He shrugged and gave a little embarrassed smile.

"I think that's enough T. S. for one day, though," Oscar said, and Toby nodded gratefully. "Should we just go on to food?"

"...Guys, I have a confession," Pam piped up, pulling another book out of her purse. "I brought Emily along, just in case."

The mood immediately lightened, and they spent the rest of the lunch hour passing the volume around reading the quirky little verse out loud as they nibbled on their fancy cookies and tea. Pam managed to cajole Oscar into saying something more or less nice about every poem they shared, and more than once laughter chorused around the table.

Oscar had to go back to his desk the second his break was over or face Angela's bitching, so Pam and Toby cleaned up folding up the tablecloth and storing it away for future meetings.

"You see yourself as the man in that poem, don't you?" Pam asked as they finished up.

He didn't answer. He thought that would have been obvious.

"You're not, though. You're not so..." she trailed off, trying to find the right word.

"Eloquent about it?" he finished, a little more bitterly than he intended.

She pursed her lips. "That's not what I meant at all,' she said, turning towards the door, leaving him all alone in their little make-believe playhouse.

Toby leaned on the counter and sighed. "I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas," he mumbled.

* * *

A/N II: Yes, Toby was merely spouting my ideas on the poem. Also, yeah, he's kind of a jerk at the end, but there's a whole fun aspect to writing Creepy Toby that is getting him to do and say inappropriate things.

Thanks to the following for paying the ransom... **KipperMay**, **JAMonMyToast**, and** bingbangboom714.** You guys is cool. Next chapter is not ransomed but it will be a few days before it's up becuase I have two night shifts and I don't see myself having the time or energy to type. But maybe if I had some reviews to motivate me, I might find a little extra willpower...


	8. Nice Guys Like You

**Title:** Nice Guys Like You  
**Rating:** K+  
**Diclaimer:** I own a Death Star Pez dispenser. I don't own this.  
**A/N:** For our next installment, I present to you some Toby/Kelly lightness. After last chapter's gloominess, I thought I might give everyone a bit of a break and maybe have someone laugh while reading one of my stories... Also, Dunderball = love.

* * *

Toby found the annex was eerily calm after Ryan left. He felt bad that he was kind of happy Kelly was quiet for once, but after the first few days, he was more unnerved by the silence than he ever would have guessed.

He knocked on the wall between them. "Kelly?" he asked, then, self-conscious of his usual library-soft tone, tried it again louder. "Kelly?"

"Go away, she moaned, voice sounding muffled.

He could leave it at that. He could say he tried. But he hadn't really tried, and he did kind of like Kelly, or at least he used to when she wore outfits Angela would have approved of and played Dunderball with him on slow afternoons, and she was probably still that person.

He walked around the wall and found her curled up on the floor, wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, her head under her desk and tissues strewn all over.

He sat down on the floor, back against Ryan's vacant desk. "Hey."

She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. "Hey."

They stared at each other for a while.

Kelly spoke first. "How could he do this to me?" she whispered, curling into a ball, clutching her stomach like she was about to be sick.

Toby opened his mouth, some HR sentiment already on his tongue, when all the easy, expected answers fled his brain.

Ryan was a lot like his ex. She wanted it to end. Okay, that was fine. It hurt, but he could survive, but she didn't need to do it so swiftly or cruelly.

"He didn't love you," he found himself saying, voice not comforting or HR, but bitter with his own memories. "And he even didn't care about you enough to think about your feelings when he ended it."

She looked at him, recognizing a kindred soul and responding more to it than she ever would have to stock comfort phrases. "I really, really want to hate him, but I love him too much," she mumbled.

Toby nodded solemnly.

She pulled herself up into a sitting position, hugging her knees and eyeing him warily, like a stray cat. "I wish I could hate him. He was a jerk. He forgot my birthday, you know. Half the time he didn't pick up when I called. And it would only ring twice, 'cause he's hit Ignore when he saw it was me. Not that he needed a button to ignore me 'cause he did it when we went out and when I tried to talk to him and... and..." She broke off, a tear slipping down her face.

He pulled a tissue out of the box--it was nearly empty--and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "Hey, I found something when I was under my desk." She ducked back under and pulled out a little ball about five inches in diameter.

He immediately broke into a grin. "Would you look at that?"

She smiled a little, and the threat of tears was gone from her eyes. She scooted a little way from him and sat cross-legged, then tossed him the ball. He caught it and easily returned it.

"Ryan was such a wuss, too," Kelly said as they played catch. "Did you know he used to call me late at night 'cause he thought there was a burglar in his apartment?"

Toby did know. He knew much more about their relationship than he ever wanted to, because the divider between his desk and theirs was very thin. But he laughed like it was news to him.

"I hope he does get a burglar in his apartment in New York," she added, wrinkling her nose. "Serve him right. You know what else? He was totally afraid of big dogs. Like, one time we were walking to this restaurant and someone was walking their dog--it wasn't even that big, more like a medium dog--and he started getting all jumpy and tried to avoid it. It was totally pathetic."

It went like that for a while, playing with the Dunderball while Kelly badmouthed Ryan with every ounce of fire in her. Toby mostly nodded, and laughed dutifully at times. It was almost a relief to hear her chatter at her usual mile-a-minute pace again. He found himself getting more and more disgusted with Ryan as she continued.

She hit a lull eventually trying to dig up something out of her memory banks of suitable embarrassment. Toby spoke up.

"What he did was totally out of line. He's not worth all the energy you put into hating him."

Kelly caught the ball and didn't throw it back. "I know, right? No one here listens to me, even though they totally saw what a jerk he was. Even Pam, and she should know what I'm talking about, especially after all the crap she went through with Roy. But Pam's kind of a bitch sometimes, anyway."

He nodded before he could stop himself. Then he felt bad... But not too bad.

Kelly fiddled with the ball thoughtfully, then tossed it back to Toby. "Why'd we stop playing Dunderball, anyway?"

"...Things got in the way." Like, oh, Ryan.

"We should totally play more," she said decisively. "We should have a tournament, like Oscar and Kevin do."

"Sounds fun," he said. And it did. He tossed it back.

She threw it again, but her aim was off and it went wide. He reached for it---a little too far--and overbalanced and fell over.

Kelly started to laugh, starting soft and giggly but increasing steadily in volume and depth until she was doubled over, forehead almost touching the floor and howling with laughter.

Toby wasn't offended. He knew he must look pretty ridiculous, sprawled on the floor in full business attire. For once in his life, he didn't even feel self-conscious about it. He didn't even bother to get up, but just shifted onto his back and laughed like he didn't have a care in the world.

For, like, twenty seconds.

"What's going on back here?" came an all-too-familiar voice and Toby's heart sank back to its usual place.

Michael looked curiously into Kelly's cubicle, then did a double-take when he found his arch-enemy lying on the floor.

"Kelly, what is this creep doing in your personal space? Should I call security?"

"We're talking okay?" She grabbed the ball and threw it at Michael. It bounced off his chest and Toby caught it absently and handed it back to her.

"With... _that_? Why would you waste your time when you've got real friends in the office?"

"Like, hello? He's my HR rep, I'm talking to him, and it's confidential. So you can't listen in or I'll sue." She cocked her arm back, ready to throw again.

Michael retreated, assaulted by a barrage he hadn't expected in the least. The camera operator that had followed him over lingered, but Kelly narrowed her eyes threateningly and he vanished as well.

"That was amazing Kelly," Toby said, sitting up. "Wish I could do that."

"You totally could, Toby."

"...Yeah, but Michael never listens to me," he mumbled.

"That's 'cause--"

Her phone rang.

'Damn!' She picked it up. "Customer Service, this is Kelly... Uh-huh. Okay, can I put you on hold for a sec? Thanks so much!" She hit the hold button. "I gotta take this.'

They both climbed to their feet. Kelly hugged him. "Thanks for talking to me.'

"Anytime," he said with a shrug.

She smiled. "You're so nice. Why can't I date nice guys like you?"

He didn't know what to say, but she had already sat down in her chair and was picking up the phone. He exited quietly.

A little while later Kelly started dating Darryl.

At least _they_ didn't bicker and make out next to his right ear.

The Dunderball Tournament of Champions progressed nicely, with Toby ahead by two wins.

* * *

A/N II: I'm taking a little break from this story, just to warn y'all. I've got something else a'brewing, and that's taking up my time lately. Also... don't expect this to be the last Toby/Kelly fanfiction you're going to see from me. As usual, thanks to my loyal reviewers and/or stalkers. You make it worth getting a backache from my computer chair.


	9. Shall I Compare Thee?

**Title:** Shall I Compare Thee?  
**Rating:** K  
**Diclaimer:** I own my own sleep deprivation.  
**A/N:** A transitional fic, if you will.

* * *

Pam is a classic beauty. Understated. Natural. Simple and sweet.

Toby's always found himself drawn to that kind of style. His ex-wife had it, too. Not that he has some kind of weird fixation on Pam because of that--

You know what? Never mind.

Pam is an early spring afternoon. Warm in the sunlight, but with a hint of frostiness lingering on the breeze, all pastels and hesitant blooms, swished into softness like an Impressionist painting.

Kelly, though, is all boldness and brightness and zeitgeist.

She's there a lot, just beyond the cubicle wall, talking or laughing or kissing someone else. He shouldn't notice her, but she makes herself noticeable--even to him--in a way that Pam, with her pressed smiles and layered clothing, never would or never could.

She would be a summer night, dusky and hot and humming with cicadas, bursting with concerts and parties and fireworks.

And the ease of summer drives the tense chill of spring from his hands and loosens the coil of muscles in the back of his neck. It makes him sigh, just a little.

* * *

**A/N II:** If anyone hasn't found out by now through my profile (which is constantly updated with news about my fics, by the way), **the last chapter is open to suggestions from my reviewers**. Anyone who has already reviewed at least two chapters can submit to me a story idea, and I will either choose my fave or write multiple ones or all of them. Depends on how many I get. Just leave the prompt/idea/concept in the review or just PM me. I look forward to hearing what you have to say! This has been my biggest published project with the highest amount of words, hits and reviews, and I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed and encouraged me.


	10. Every Girl's Checklist

**Title:** Every Girl's Checklist  
**Rating:** K+ (for hypothetical "doing")  
**Disclaimer:** I don't even own the idea for this one... That belongs to the singular OverkillKiller7.  
**A/N:** So here we are. Been a long, strange journey, my friends. This series is just... everything I could have hoped for and more. Gah, I really don't have a life, do I? Season Two fic for ya all...

* * *

Pam and Kelly ended up sequestered in the break room for lunch the day after The Great Office Fire of Aught Five, as the kitchen was still unappetizingly acrid.

"How crazy was that yesterday? Playing 'Who Would You Do?' in the parking lot... I wish work was actually fun like that every day," Kelly said nostalgically over her carrot sticks.

Pam just nodded, feeling slightly flushed. Nodding wasn't really lying, right?

"I can't believe you didn't say Jim," Kelly continued.

Pam choked a little on her yogurt. "...He's my friend," she managed. "I... don't really think of him that way." Yeah, sometimes for two or three minutes at a time, even.

Kelly laughed. 'Geez, Pam, it's just 'Who Would You Do?' It's not like it means anything."

"Okay." Then, in a smaller voice, "I'd do Jim."

Kelly smiled victoriously. "I knew it.'

"What?"

"I'd totally do that hot temp. Mmm..."

"You'd have to fight Michael for him," Pam muttered.

"He's so cute... I can totally see myself having babies with him."

Pam gave her an odd look. "You barely know him."

"But oh my God, our kids would be so adorable! Can you even imagine it, Pam? 'Cause I can."

"But the guy you marry... he should be... you know..."

"What do I know?"

"Nice. And caring. And good with kids." Pam didn't know much about Ryan either, but he looked like the kind of guy a kid could tear apart in about three seconds flat.

"Yeah, totally. And hot. Because I would die if I had ugly kids."

Pam frowned. "That's not really that important. If he's hot, I mean." She wasn't even going to touch that last statement. "So long as he's nice."

"But cute, at least?"

"Yeah. Cute's good."

"And smart," Kelly said unexpectedly.

"Uh-huh." Pam said, pleasantly surprised. For once.

"And a good listener," Kelly added with great import.

"That would be... perfect for you."

"I know. I bet Ryan's a good listener..."

Pam sighed a little inside. "Probably."

"But... The perfect guy doesn't really exist. Like, I was reading in Cosmo how you shouldn't just look for some awesome guy that's everything on your checklist. You should just, like, give people a chance."

Pam nodded, heretofore unaware of the breath of philosophical insights to be gleaned from Cosmo.

"You're so lucky you have Roy, though."

"Yeah." Oh, she was lucky.

So... lucky.

* * *

A/N II: So... This is based off OverkillKiller7's prompy of "Maybe something about how Jim is something a girl would want in a more obvious way, but Toby is possibly better for someone like Pam or Kelly in a more subtle way." Apparantly, I get to keep my fingertips and teeth, so I guess I did a pretty good job...

Well, cue up the tearful music, 'cause this is goodbye, folks! I kinda feel weird. This collection's been running for nearly the entire duration of my active involvement in this fandom. And now I've just moved past it. Sigh.

Well, a million thanks to everyone who brightened my days with reveiws and admissions that they think Toby is at least one-tenth as awesome to them as he is to me.


End file.
